


your bones

by haipollai



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Hallucinations, Hypothermia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:22:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/pseuds/haipollai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve feels the cold creeping under his uniform, through the tears in the fabric. It's into his skin despite going as far into the small cavern as possible. There's nowhere else for him to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your bones

**Author's Note:**

> +Title from Your Bones by Of Monsters and Men

Steve feels the cold creeping under his uniform, through the tears in the fabric. It's into his skin despite going as far into the small cavern as possible. There's nowhere else for him to go. 

The crash had thrown him out of the jet, into nothing but whiteness. His earpiece was gone too. No communication. He just had to hope the embedded GPS tracker was still in place. 

He had tried to get back to where he thought the jet should be but what felt like hours of walking turned up nothing. Eventually the injuries from the crash drove him into the closest thing to shelter he could find. He didn't have anything to light a fire or keep him warm, so all he can do is huddle up as tight as possible, try to keep himself warm as long as possible. He keeps the shield over him, using it to hold off the creeping snow as long as possible. But it couldn't protect all of him and as time crept on, the snow built up.

All he wants to do is feel warm again. When even the sensation of cold passes, hours or minutes or days later, he starts to wonder if this is how he'll be found. Once again frozen in ice.

"God, you're morbid."

He looks over, his head feeling heavy and hard to move. Bucky crouches in the snow in front of him but the cold doesn't seem to touch him. His uniform - the old one from when he first left for war - is still crisp and new. He even has his hat on. "You're not real," he mumbles. His tongue is heavy and his lips refuse to move much.

"You sure? Maybe I'm from somewhere you don't want to think about. Maybe I'm here to drag you to hell with me." For a second it looks like his eyes glow with a dark evil fire and Steve longs for any warmth.

"No, no you're alive." He looks away from Bucky and his sharp uniform, thinks back to Bucky last time in Brooklyn. It was-

"When did you see me last, Steve?"

"No."

"Was that really me in your kitchen? Telling you good bye, giving you lines about finding myself? You really think I would say shit like that Steve?" He thinks Bucky's touching him, he wants him to. Press his hand to Steve's forehead like he did years ago, when Steve was small and constantly, slowly dying. "Too hot," Bucky tsks, like he used to when they were young. When disease followed closely on the heels of each winter. "It's okay to let go Steve. For once, just-"

"Bucky wouldn't tell me to let go." He laughs humorlessly and sinks deeper into the snow. Everything is numb now. "Guess my own subconscious doesn't know me that well."

Bucky looks almost sad and Steve wonders if he's wrong. If this is Bucky or some ghost of him. Steve had never paid much attention to ghost stories as a boy, but his mother had taken him to church and the nuns had taught them of heaven and hell and where bad little boys go. "I'll be here when you're ready," Bucky says softly. Or Steve thinks he hears the words.

Steve closes his eyes, everything is distant and numb. He hasn't prayed for years but the words of the Hail Mary come back easily.

-

The first thing he feels is warmth. Followed by the scratchy fabric of a hospital gown. There's no beeping though and he wonders if he's dead, dressed in something decent so someone can come and identify his body. He doesn't want to open his eyes, just tries to absorb the warmth, let it in as deep as possible but it never seems to reach his bones.

Steve knows he won't ever be warm again. The ice won't ever leave him, not entirely. A chunk forever preserved somewhere deep in his chest.

In the end, his own curiosity won't let him keep his eyes closed. He has to know if he's alive or dead. The ceiling is flat and dull and he lifts up a hand, stretching out his fingers. There's an IV line in the back of his hand and he can feel it, it's faint through the numbness but there. Slowly, he wills his hand into a fist, watching the fingers respond.

He's not dead yet, but there's no elation with the thought. He remembers waking up in a different bed, in a fake room. All set up to fool him. Staring up at the dull ceiling, he wonders if that was part of his dying dream as well. If anything that had happened recently was real. Maybe Stark has found him in the ice, maybe-

"Hey, you're awake."

The bed dips and he turns his head to see Bucky there and when his hand covers Steve's, Steve can feel it. Bucky manages a small smile, looking exhausted and rumpled. No straight, crisp lines. He wears jeans and a t-shirt instead of a stiff uniform. But his smile is warm, and Steve feels that as well. "How long?" He rasps.

"Were you unconscious or- You were there for almost a week." His eyes dart away and Steve can see the prickling of tears before he squeezes his eyes shut. "You were almost dead."

"So you came back?" Steve asks. He remembers the scene in his kitchen, where Bucky tried to explain in half sentences and gestures how he needed to not be there anymore, needed to go off and get his head on straight, how adamant he was on needing space and time. It was all bullshit but Steve didn't know how to tell him no. 

"Yes! Of course-" Bucky's hands fist tightly and Steve moves on instinct, covering one of Bucky's hands with his own. Holding on until Bucky takes a breath and slowly opens his fingers, pressing their palms together. "I can't do this without you. I need you and the thought of losing you-" He lifts Steve's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "I was scared," he whispers against Steve's skin.

The admission is barely audible, even to Steve but he knows what it means that it was said at all. "Will you stay?"

"If you'll have me." He manages a small smile. "I know I've gotta stay as long as you're cooped up here, you're the worst damn patient ever."

"Hate hospitals. They smell of death." They smell of his mother's TB and his own illnesses. They smell of dirt and blood and boys he couldn't help save. Steve hates hospitals and wants to be anywhere but in that bed. But Bucky knows all of that and doesn't need to hear it.

"I'm here. Ghosts can't hurt me so I'll keep them away from you." He moves to a chair beside the bed but doesn't let go of Steve's hand. Steve wonders when Bucky stopped fearing ghosts. Maybe he'll ask later if Bucky's still there. "The doctors want to take a look at you."

Steve gives Bucky a hard look, wondering what he even had to do to get the doctors to hold back and wait. "Let them wait a little longer." He closes his eyes and takes a breath, breathing in the treated, filtered air of the hospital. Nothing like the sharp cold air that burned his nose and lungs but it doesn't bring much relief. Not like the warm hand on his, scared and callused and familiar. "I think I hallucinated you on the ice," he mumbles.

"I'm real, I promise." There's another kiss to his knuckles, warm and soft, to prove Bucky's point. Steve finally grips Bucky's hand in return, giving in and letting himself believe that this is Bucky. 

"You told me to give up and rest."

"Definitely a hallucination. I would never Steve. Too selfish to let you go." Steve can hear the scrape of the chair over the floor as Bucky moves closer. His metal arm curls around Steve's chest, solid and heavy. It's cool but not cold like ice. "You'll be fine Steve."

Steve smiles and doesn't argue. They both know that it's not that easy to unfreeze, but Bucky knows that and understands.


End file.
